


Claire's Baby

by orphan_account



Series: Married to Francis. [1]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't menopause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They are unceremoniously routed from the luxuriously appointed master bedroom, re-decorated since the reign of President Garrett. Claire curses elegantly, and it's Francis who comforts their bewildered Secret Service Agent.

“Come with me,” he orders quietly, placing a steadying hand at the small of Edward’s back. “We’ll give her time to settle down.”  
They wander downstairs, towards the bunker-like basement, ending at the White House bowling alley. “I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” apologizes Francis, but it’s good for stress.”

“At least there are balls, Sir,” smirks Edward, bending his head to kiss Francis’s neck.

They bowl two games and are on the tie-breaking third when Claire slinks in.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My clothes don’t fit right and my ankles are swollen.”

“Your breasts look fantastic,” Edward blurts, staring at her chest which is spilling from her skimpy night shirt.

“I suppose it’s another symptom of menopause but it reminds me of when…”

“Of what?” asks Francis sharply, an odd thought, an old memory rearing in his busy brain.

“It reminds me of when I’ve been pregnant,” she says ruefully, slipping her arms around Francis’s waist, leaning into his sheltering arms so that she doesn’t see the look of alarm her husband and lover exchange.


	2. Chapter 2

They find an unused pregnancy test in the bathroom connected to the room formerly used by President Walker’s teenaged daughter.  
Frank hisses in mock sympathy. “Won’t Tricia be devastated when little Susie makes her a grandmother at such a tender age.”  
Claire snorts. “Her name is Sarah. And you’re probably right.”  
“When isn’t he,” chuckles Edward nervously, leaning against the bathroom door.  
Claire reads the directions while Francis unwraps the plastic device not much bigger than a toothbrush.  
“Here.”  
“I can’t,” she sighs, pointing her two men towards the door. “Nervous bladder.”  
*  
There are two blue lines.  
“I can’t believe it,” Claire moans, handing the test to Francis, who in turn gives it to Edward.  
“But how long?” asks Francis, mentally thumbing through his calendar. “We’ve been living here for nearly five months now.”  
“Inauguration Day,” suggests Edward, looking embarrassed. “And two weeks before that, when I moved the rower into your bedroom, I had to take a leak. I noticed an open box of tampons next to the bathroom sink.”  
“Inauguration Day,” mused Francis, rubbing his lips. “After the reception. If I recall correctly, we were all pretty well hit with the jizz.”  
“I had both of you that night,” recalls Claire, hand to her lower belly. “This baby could be either of yours.”


	3. Chapter 3

Francis breaks the silence with a surprisingly sweet chuckle. “As long as it isn’t Adam’s,” he says ruefully, covering Claire’s hand with his own.

Edward is less than amused. “I never liked him,” he growls. “He’s weak. And I don’t think right to take someone’s picture while they sleep or any other time without their permission.”

The President and First Lady nod.

“Well, he’s in Columbia with his wife now.”

Clearing his throat, sounding almost guilty, Francis has to address one final possibility. “So, you aren’t considering having an abortion?”

With resolve Claire shakes her head. “No. It’s too late and we don’t want to outrage the America public by having another one. Besides, I want it,” she says, taking Edward’s hand, sandwiching it between hers and Francis’s. “This baby belongs to the three of us.”

Francis beams. He hates children as a rule but a child, _their_ child –  that makes all the difference. “We’ll visit the Infirmary tomorrow morning. Edward, you’ll come too.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Edward laughs. He knows that he’ll perform in his official capacity as their body guard but that’s fine – as long as he’s included.

“I’m cold. Let’s go back to bed,” drawls Francis, pecking Edward’s cheek, a kiss that’s a prelude to more.

*

As Francis pushes into Edward, he’s thinking about that night when they celebrated his ascending to the highest office in the land.

_After tangling together, all hands and lips, he’d urged Edward to go first. Francis likes to watch, loves to see the pleasure in Claire’s face as she chases her orgasms, one after another, something he’s usually too busy to observe. And Edward’s face is beautiful, too, as he makes rough, triumphant sounds as he climaxes inside Claire. She’s wet when Edward rolls aside and Francis takes over; sopping and hot and it’s her and Edward’s juices combined and Francis can scarcely hold on long enough to help her come again before he adds his own splashes of semen._

Francis is gentle. There’s no rush and he’s enjoying the view; Edward’s nestled between Claire’s thighs, teasing her with slow, flat licks against her inner lips while Francis almost lazily pumps his hips, listening to their breathing and the soft moans and supplications, their three voices harmonizing together.

 _Harmony_.

Francis is almost overwhelmed again as he’d been giving the speech at the dedication of the Sentinel’s library. The three are so beautifully, so terrifyingly, earth-shatteringly intertwined and Francis knows that this particular form of happiness can’t last forever. But then, as his normally logical brain fights this metaphysical flight of fancy, he hears something new; faint, chiming like a tiny bell – a counterpoint to his and Claire and Edward’s lovemusic. It’s the child, Francis realizes, and suddenly he’s even happier, now certain that Claire’s pregnancy was foreordained, unavoidable. He tries to push away the sense of foreboding creeping at the edges of his thoughts; it won’t be without heartbreaking pain, as unavoidable as the pleasure of bringing forth a new life.


	4. Chapter 4

Claire makes them wait outside while she’s examined. “I know you hate the sight of blood,” she reminds Francis, pointing at the rack of test tubes to be filled by the waiting doctor. “I’ll have them get you when we listen for the heartbeat.”

Francis crosses his arms and ankles, whistling tunefully while Edward pretends to be engrossed in a decade-old copy of Good Housekeeping. “There’s a brownie recipe in here, Sir…”

“You may come in now, President Underwood,” the nurse says respectively, her smile turning to a frown when Edward follows at Francis’s heels.

“You’ll need to wait out here, Agent,” she snaps, earning a searing stare from Francis, one that will henceforth haunt her dreams.

“Now, Nurse, I could spend hours telling you just how important this man is to me and my wife but let’s not waste my valuable time,” he says acidly. “Come, Meechum,” he continues, the fondness he feels evident to all. Edward nods curtly at the nurse. She couldn’t have kept him away.

The heartbeat is found after a few tense moments.

“It sounds like a galloping horse,” grins Francis, joyfully punching Edward’s arm. “She’s perfect!”

“She?” laughs Claire, her paper gown crinkling as she lifts it up for the doctor to spread lubricant over the tiny mound below her belly button.

“She. Francis Claire. That’s F.r.a.n.c.i.s, not Frances. Like me,” Francis crows.

“That’s very pretty,” whispers Edward, dividing his stare between the ultra-sound monitor and Claire’s belly.

“Well, we’ll call her Frankie for short,” the President continues, bending down to kiss Claire’s shining hair.

“Do I get a say in any of this?” she laughs, her train of thought interrupted by the doctor. “There,” he points. “The heartbeat.”

“Oh, she's beautiful,” sighs Edward, already in love and falling harder each second.

“She looks like a space alien to me,” giggles Claire, as the doctor points out the orbits of the fetus’s eyes.

“Frankie,” Francis chuckles, tracing the outline of her spine on the screen. “It looks like she’s sucking her thumb!”

The doctor nods. “They do that. We’re going to runs some tests and of course, at your age any pregnancy is considered high risk but everything here likes just wonderfully normal – no signs that might indicate Down Syndrome, no limb malformation. She looks perfect, Mrs. Underwood!”

“She?”

The doctor laughs. “Your husband’s right – I think it’s a girl!”

“Perfect.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Neither man can keep from touching Claire; Francis in public, Edward during stolen, shadow moments when he can stroke the startling swell of her belly without fear of being seen.

*

They carry on as before, perhaps even more passionately for hormones drive Claire; she begs for their attention in the grand bed, exhausting Francis and Edward while still keening for more.

*

The nation reacts splendidly to the news of the impending birth.

“I’ll be mother of the year at this rate,” laughs Claire, still feeling the sting of the public’s scorn over the Adam Galloway scandal, the abortion scandal, the rape scandal; so many damned scandals but now the joy is undisguised.

“The top button of my blouse popped off as I stood up after this morning’s fundraiser,” complained Claire, sadly aware of the need to exchange her sleek boy-cut blouses for something larger, more forgiving of her new shape.

“Your breasts are beautiful. _You’re_ beautiful,” vows Francis. Edward says nothing; he’s too busy tugging at one of her nipples with his lips.

*

“I _have_ to go, Francis. It’s not enough to send the Vice-President to the Queen’s funeral. You need to go and I’ll be at your side.”

“But your health…?”

“My doctors have cleared me to fly. I’m almost eight months now but my blood pressure is fine, everything is fine. I’m as healthy as a horse.  Besides, we'll bring a full medical team with us.”

Edward frowns but he knows it isn’t his place to forbid her to go; he knows it isn’t Francis’s place, either, so strong willed is Claire. But that’s one of the many reasons they love her, isn’t it.

*

“What’s wrong?” asks Francis, tucking his legs against his comfortable seat aboard Air Force One so that Claire can get up. They are half-way across the Atlantic and he can scarcely wait to be home; Edward has stayed and they’ve missed him terribly.

“Nothing. Just a small headache,” Claire replies distractedly. She makes it half way to the bathroom before she collapses.

“Claire!” Francis lifts her limp body as he calls for assistance, the sudden gush of blood from her nostrils staining his crisp white shirt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose not to include a major character death warning when I started posting this story because I didn't want to reveal a major plot point and because i wasnt sure how the story would unfold. Please be warned that Claire has, as the chapter starts, died.

A journalist waits near the gates, not far from where Air Force One is expected to land. He’s not as pretty as Zoe or Lucas or as tenacious and bold as Janine. Unemployed, he’s hunting for the right moment, the one photograph that will put him on the map. It seems unlikely he’ll find it today; at most, there’s always the chance that Underwood might trip down the steps from the airplane, like Gerald Ford, so there’s that.

He nods at the lanky Secret Service Agent who’s trying not to pace, not to fidget or show any more than a formal blank face. The journalist’s neck hairs tickle – it looks like that Agent is about to cry and he wonders just what will happen when the President disembarks. He doesn’t know that he’s about to become famous, that his photo of Francis Underwood clutching a small, blanket wrapped bundle to his blood stained chest as he slowly descends the stairs, the Agent rushing to his side.

*

“She’s gone, Edward. Our Claire is…gone.”

“Sir,” keens Edward, hurrying to drape a supporting arm around the ashen man’s shaking shoulders. Edward spies the bundle, hears the soft whimper coming from it. Francis’s hands are trembling; it’s drizzling and his fingers are dripping pink, smearing the pale blanket a mockery of the color for girls.

“Is the baby…”

“She’s fine. Early but fine. They opened up Claire and snatched Frankee out, lickety-split,” the President chokes. “Here. You take her before I accidentally drop her.”

Edward reverently accepts the bundle Francis passes him. He pushes the edges of the blanket to see the face of their girl for the first time. “She…she looks just like her mother,” Edward says, coughing through a fit of laughs and sobs.

“Thank God for small favors,” nods the leader of the free world, staring bleakly at his stained hands.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get out your hankies!

Edward helps Francis to the waiting ambulance, reluctantly handing Frankie over to one of the doctor’s before mounting the steps to join Francis.

“Sir, you’ll need to leave,” an officious paramedic barks at Edward. “This is only for the President and the child…”

Francis’s numb indifference is broken by anger. “Meechum stays with me!” he snaps and the paramedic nods, pale-faced, stepping aside. “Meechum stays with _us_ ,” Francis whispers, allowing Edward to unbutton his wet shirt so that the medical professionals can go to work.

“You’re in shock, Mr. President,” states the most senior of them. “We’ll take you to Bethesda Hospital and the baby can go to Children’s…”

“No.”

“Come again, Mr. President?”

“She’s with us,” he croaks, still in command despite the ravages of despair. “Aren’t you, Princess,” he asks, motioning Edward to bring her swaddled form close enough to deposit a soft kiss against the black tufts of her hair.

They try to block Edward again, this time forbidding him to follow Frankie into the emergency nursery, where pediatricians waited to asses her condition.

“Give me a pen,” Francis growls and when his hands are to unsteady to write clearly, he hands it over to the nearest doctor.

“Take this down. ‘I, Francis J. Underwood, allow Agent Edward Meechum to act on my behalf with regards to the female infant known as Francis Claire _Edward_ Underwood.’” He reads it and is satisfied enough to sign the document, obliging the others to witness. “There. Edward, stay with her. Please?” Wiping his eyes, Edward salutes, shaken and shocked that his name has been added to the baby’s previously decided name. “Of course, Sir. I’ll watch over her.” Francis smiles weakly, allowing a doctor to inject a sedative into a waiting vein; he can sleep now that Meechum’s on the job.

*

His eyes are closed but he can hear Edward whispering, soft nonsense words, a croon that accompanied another sound, the rhythmic squeak of a baby at suck. Francis pretends to sleep as he desperately tries to reconcile disparate emotions:

Love for the baby? Check

Despair at the loss of Claire? Check

Guilt, for he might have tried harder to keep Claire from accompanying him on the trip for perhaps it had been the pressure of the trip, the rigors of air travel, even aboard the most luxurious of planes, Air Force One? Check, check, check

“Edward?” he whispers, holding out a hand that Edward grasps.

“Where is Claire?”

“Sir?”

“Has she…her body, has it been seen to? Autopsied?”

There’s a snuffle, then a quiet, “Yes, Sir. They’re taking care of her right now.”

“And the baby?” Francis struggles against the sedative to sit up.

“Here.”  There’s a warm weight on his lap, slight as it is it feels like the weight of the world. “Frankie is doing great. She’s a little over four pounds and sixteen inches. I think she’ll be tall, like Claire.” Francis picks her up, pushing aside the blankets. Frankie is wearing a shirt, a knit hat and the tiniest diaper he’s ever seen.

“She’s hairy,” he laughs, combing a swirl of dark hair along her back. Her ribs are painfully obvious. Edward chuckles. “The nurse told me it’s called lanugo. All babies have it but it usually disappears before they are born. Frankie’s seven weeks early, weeks where she would have been gaining fat; that’s why she’s so skinny. But we’ll fatten her up. The important thing is she’s breathing fine. She’ll be discharged from the hospital as soon as you’re ready to bring her home.”

“When _we’re_ ready to bring her home,” replies Francis. “Edward, I know that the three of us talked about you helping Claire take care of the baby as part of your normal duties watching over them, but now that she’s gone… Edward, I need your help. Frankie needs your help! Will you…”

Edward smiles and this time it reaches his previously sorrowful eyes. “Always!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get out your hankies!

Francis Underwood sits on a marble bench in the gleaming, trying not to choke of the scent of roses as he hefts the precious object in his hands. His black suit, once perfectly tailored, hangs loose on his grief-shrunken frame. Pushing back a lock of hair that’s suddenly more grey than not, he clears his voice and begins to talk, addressing the alabaster urn he’s held until the stone has become nearly as warm as Claire’s cheek before…

“I kept things private, like you've always asked. No cathedral funeral, no parade, no viewing of the… _your_ corpse – so primitive, I’ve always thought.  Cremation was the right call and this urn is big enough for my ashes, too one day. Perhaps Edward’s as well. I think he’ll want that.”

Francis clears his throat. “Frankie is doing well, out of the hospital and gaining weight. We’ve put your things in storage and Edward’s moved across the hall from me in your old room. We’ve turned your study into the nursery, the dividing door between the two rooms kept open so Edward can hear the baby. That’s the theory, at least; he’s got her basinet right next to his bed so that he’ll wake up the minute she needs something. We’re still not sure who sired her but let me tell you, she’s got my big mouth,” he laughs.

“Darling, I always thought I’d go first. It turns out you had a weak blood vessel in your skull. Doctors say you were born with it, a ticking time bomb. Sure, all the pressure of being First Lady didn’t help, nor the rides on Air Force One but the blood vessel could have burst at any time. It wasn’t Frankie’s fault. Turns out that being with me on the plane was optimal; you might have died in your sleep and Frankie would have died with you.”

He hears something, the fall of footsteps down at the end of the mausoleum. Stamper, maybe or Cathy Durant.

“Edward is at home, Claire, with the baby. He couldn’t stand seeing you put to rest, poor man. But he asked me to give you this.” Francis kisses the top of the urn, watches his tears course down the smooth sides. “And here’s a kiss from me and one from Frankie. Oh, Claire, I’ll miss you so!”


	9. Chapter 9

A month passes. Edward, with help, coaxes precious ounces onto Frankie’s tough, tiny body.

“She doesn’t look quite so much like a monkey,” Francis says encouragingly, earning a laugh from the dedicated Meechum, who replies “Must take after my side of the family, then.”

Her looks vary from day to day; like Edward in certain lights, a spitting image of Francis in others. Her dark hair does wear off, her head wreathed with a nimbus of pale wheat. “Like her mother,” Edward states proudly. “Good,” adds Francis, equally smitten.

Francis tries to rest, easy with all the responsibility Edward’s embraced as Frankie’s nanny. “Take your time,” Doug urges, “We’ve keep the country running while you recover.”

*

“I’m going back to work,” Francis declares as he holds forth a fluffy towel with which to wrap around the wet baby. She rests against his shoulder, fists bunched and eyes a goggle as she stares between the two men, suddenly giggling with delight.

“Gas?” asks Edward, ready to dry his hands to thumb through the baby manual.

“Edward Meechum, that is a laugh if I ever heard one,” snorts Francis, laughing himself. Edward joins in. A diaper is next, then a onesie.

“I’ll go get her bottle.” Francis looks down at his daughter, who is wriggling, fighting sleep. “You need a lullaby, don’t you darlin’” he croons, swaying from side to side while he starts to sing.

“ _Down in the valley, valley so low, Hang your head over, hear the wind blow. Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.”_

When Edward returns, she’s asleep.

*

They get into a groove. Francis wakes up before dawn, eating breakfast in the Oval Office as his sleepy staff fumble to work. Edward and Frankie have a standing lunch date with the President, arriving at noon, bright eyed and hungry. Edward leaves the baby with him for two or three hours, enough time for father and child to bond while he goes for a run, takes a nap, relaxes. There’s always Nancy, there waiting but Francis holds on to her, waltzing with her against his broad chest, always singing.

*

Six months.

“I’ve got to go to Iowa,” Francis tells Edward over bowls of granola and a jar of mashed bananas for Frankie. “The election.”

“I can’t believe it’s time,” sighs Edward, scraping the film of yellow paste below Frankie’s bottom lip with the spoon, plopping it into her open mouth. She grabs the spoon and indulgently, he lets her keep it. She bangs to table, bonk-bonk and both men laugh. But Edward grows somber. “We won’t see you very much, then. Frankie’s prone to ear aches and the cabin pressure…”

“I know, I know,” frowns Francis, wiping a dab of banana from his reading glasses. “It won’t be without sacrifices. God knows I’ll miss the two of you.”

“But it’s worth it. You winning the election,” Edward acknowledges with only a hint of reluctance. 

Francis stands, folding the newspaper, kissing the top of Frankie’s head before impulsively kissing the top of Edward’s. They haven’t touched, not that way, not since Claire’s death. Francis wonders if Edward is ready. He guesses Edward is but isn’t sure about himself, yet. Just little touches, mostly with the baby as their buffer. Edward deserves more, of this Francis is suddenly certain.

“I’ve got to catch my plane,” Francis tells him, tilting Edward’s face so that he can bestow a real kiss this time.

“Thank you, Sir,” Edward breathes, visibly moved.

“My pleasure, Agent Meechum,” replies the President, unable to stop from kissing Edward one more time before departing.


	10. Chapter 10

“The election is in the bag,” brags the President on a very, very private video chat line with Edward Meechum. “I’ll be home tomorrow and I’ll finish campaigning in the Capital.”

“Can’t wait to see you, Francis,” replies Edward, who has finally managed to kick the habit of calling Francis ‘Sir’.  
Francis’s face grows large as he peers toward the monitor. “Have you grown a mustache?”  
Edward strokes a finger down the dark down on his upper lip, it matches the black of his strappy t-shirt. “Do you like it?”

“I think so. But, uh, I’ve never kissed a man with a mustache,” admits the President candidly.

“Not even Tom?" Edward replies, swallowing hard.  
"Never," vows Underwood and for now Edward believes him. "There’s a first time for everything,” continues Edward, whose bulging shoulder muscles stand as testament to the hours he puts on the rowing machine while Frankie is napping.  
Francis stares longingly but before things can become explicit he abruptly changes the conversation. “I ran into the Bishop today. He suggests firmly that it’s high time that Frankie’s baptized.”

“But I thought you didn’t…” 

“I don’t but Claire and I discussed it….before. We both want Frankie to have all the trappings of a girl of her station and I guess that involves chanting and pouring water on her head, poor dear.”

“I’ll find her a proper white dress,” nods Edward, clearly distracted. “Who will be her godmother and…”  
Interrupting again, Francis answers. “We’ll make Nancy her godmother. Goodness knows she loves the little tyke well enough. And I thought Doug would appreciate becoming her godfather.” 

“Doug?”

“He needs a pat on the back for all the hard work he’s done since his recovery. “

“But Francis, I’d like to be her godfather!” Edward snaps, his lower lip quivering with dismay. There’s a knock on Francis’s door. “Enter!” An aid appears at Francis’s elbow, whispering in his ear.

“Edward, we’ll talk later. Tomorrow, first thing.”

“Promise?” says Edward unhappily.

“Promise,” replies the President.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a link to Nathan Darrow with a mustache, wearing a black undershirt!
> 
> http://www.out.com/television/2015/2/18/nathan-darrow-house-cards-kevin-spacey-netflix?page=8


	11. Chapter 11

Frankie’s asleep when her father returns from weeks on the campaign trail. Francis goes to her crib first, bypassing Edward so that he can stare down into her crib and watch the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breaths.

“So beautiful!” Francis whispers. “And she’s grown so much!” He turns to face Edward, raising a hand to cup the taller man’s cheek. “Thank you.” And he rises onto the tips of toes to claim Edward’s lips. Edward doesn’t kiss back.

“Sir, I’ll be downstairs if you or Frankie need me,” he tells the President, his tone flat and dull. Bending first to tie his running shoes, he turns but Francis catches his elbow.

“Come with me,” he commands, tugging Edward into the Presidential bedroom across the broad hallway. “You and all staff are to remain outside the Residence,” Francis tells the Miller, the butler, before closing the door behind him and his former guard. “What’s wrong,” Francis growls unhappily. Of course he noticed a sense of discontent in Edward during their talk the night before and now he’s waiting to find out if his theory is correct.

“I…I thought if I were made Frankie’s godfather, it would almost be like she’s mine,” Edward confesses, blushing darkly.

“We don’t know that she _isn’t_ ,” replies Francis pointedly. There’s anguish in Edward’s voice. “Even though it wouldn’t make her mine legally, at least I’d be some kind of father to her. Do you know she’s starting to babble her first words? I show her a picture of you, let her watch on tv while you’re giving speeches and now she says ‘Da-da’ when I do. You want to know what she calls me?” Francis nods. “She started calling me Da-da but I taught her to call me Meechum, instead, like you do when there are other people around. She can’t say that yet, just Me-Me.”

“That’s darling,” gushes Francis, his grin faltering when he sees the tears forming in Edward’s eyes. “But…”

“I wish she’d call me Papa,” groans Edward, turning away.

“Edward, come here, please,” begs Francis, catching the former Marine by surprise – there were very few people who the President addressed with such deference. Edward is guided to the small couch at the foot of the grand bed. He nearly jumps with surprise as Francis descends upon one knee, fishing a small velvet box from his suit pocket.

“Edward, you mean the world to me. I thought after Claire died that my heart would remain as cold as the marble of her mausoleum but you and Frankie have made life worth living again. I was hoping you’d make me the happiest man on earth and consent to be my husband.”

There’s a silent pause. Francis opens up the box to show Edward the contents. “This is the gold insignia button I received when I won my first election so many years ago. I know it’s not a ring, but…”

He can’t say any more; Edward’s kissing him. Pulling back, Francis asks, “Does this mean yes?”

“Yes, Francis! I will!” laughs Edward, kissing Francis hard until they both need to come up for air. The baby is still asleep; they make good use of the time, nearly breaking Francis’s antique bed.

*

The christening is a mostly private affair, as are most of Francis’s milestone events these past few years. Doug is there as is Nancy; Jackie Sharp and Remy and Cathy Durant and her husband are in attendance. Even Former-President Walker and the always lovely Tricia have honored the invitation, depositing several grandly beribboned presents to the pile on the table near the refreshments. Frankie squalls when the cold water hits her head but is quickly pacified by the return to Edward’s arms; it doesn’t hurt that he allows her a bite of a delicately iced, pastel petit four.

“We’re just lucky the ground didn’t crack open to reveal the fires of hell,” laughs the President, taking Edward’s hand into his own, even kissing it without glancing at who might be watching; of course everyone was but apart from a few hushed conversations in the corners of the room, no one mentions Edward’s change in status. That is, except for Doug, who confronts Edward after the rest of the guests have gone and Francis is in the Oval Office for a briefing on the Russian situation.

“So, you’re it?” asks the Chief of Staff curtly.

“I am,” answers Edward politely, there’s no need for defiance, not while the golden circle that’s the symbol of his impending marriage glows bright against his navy blue lapel.

“Take good care of him.”

“I will,” Edward replies.

“I mean it!”

“I know,” says Edward, patting Frankie’s back, bring forth a loud burp. Both men chuckle, the matter settled.

*

Inauguration Day

Francis addresses the huge crowd and the millions watching from all corners of the world, talking at length about the promise of America Works and his other schemes to elevate the United States back into the formidable glory she’d once attained. Once finished, it’s time for the swearing in, or so all but a handful at the podium believe; Francis has something else to say.

“The last time I took this oath, my darling Claire was at my side. She made me the man I am today and her loss was devastating. But even as she died, she brought forth new life, Frankie, our beautiful daughter. They say time heals all wounds but I couldn’t have recovered without the help of Frankie and the man who has helped her grow from a tiny, premature newborn to the healthy, vibrant child she is today, Edward Meechum, a man who has been watching over me and mine for years. As my guard, Edward always had to walk behind me but now I’m asking him to stand by my side. Edward?”

Edward steps forward, handing Frankie to Doug.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Your Honor, shall we take care of a little business before I’m sworn in?” asks Francis, addressing the Judge who swore him in as both Vice-President and as President.

The judge grins and starts the simple ceremony Francis and Edward both agreed upon.

“Do you, Francis J. Underwood, take Edward Meechum to be your husband?”

“I do.”

Doug hands him a ring, Francis slips the simple gold band onto Edward’s finger.

“Do you, Edward Meechum, take Francis Underwood to be your husband?”

Nancy supplies the ring that Edward slips onto Francis’s finger, bumping into the wedding band Claire had given him thirty years before; they both want this – a token of love and remembrance.

“You may now kiss your husband!” crows the Judge, standing back so that the newlyweds can kiss publicly for the first time. The hushed crowd erupts with applause - any jeers are quickly beaten down by the shocked but ecstatic people who will proudly proclaim that they were there for this historic event.

Francis is quickly sworn in. Edward holds the bible for Francis, holds their baby, too, perched on his lean hip. Adoption papers have been prepared in advance, quickly signed by Francis and Edward Underwood, the Judge and two witnesses, Doug and Nancy. What’s been true in their hearts is now legally binding; Edward is now her father, too, for better or worse and Claire is never forgotten.


End file.
